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Dreams of the Chosen
Story of Dieselpunk Earth by tshiggins In all the years of his “existence” (he couldn’t really call it “life,” any more – not honestly), the night sky hadn’t changed all that much. The stars wheeled slowly around Polaris and told him of the approach of dawn, just as they had for more than 200 years. They timed his steps as he strolled toward the tiny, dilapidated Brooklyn flat (no – Americans called it an “apartment”…) that had been his ne… home, for a couple of years. Now, however, the presence of four new “earths” (at least, that’s what the Times had said) changed the night sky dramatically. The radio news guys (a good invention, that…) spoke of possibilities and probabilities and dramatic changes. The editorial pages did the same. The new celestial objects, combined with the wars in Europe and Asia that threatened to merge into a global conflagration, seemed to point to a world on the verge of profound change. He just couldn’t bring himself to care. The crossword puzzle in the Times folded under his left arm helped him while away at least an hour of sunlight thinking about – something else. The pigs blood in the sack in his left hand continued his pointless existence for another week, but never really took away the aching hunger. He couldn’t think about that. Not ever. (But how could he not?) Sometimes he wondered if he shouldn’t just step out into the day, and make an end. Somehow, he could never bring himself to do it; the last remnants of his Catholic upbringing, perhaps? Would that constitute yet another cosmic jest, at his expense? Is that why he took such care, to live so quietly? Is that why he still exercised such precautions, learned through decade after decade of horror (No! Can’t think about that!), when such precautions were so very necessary? Speaking of precautions…. “Hey, Mr. Galway. Yer up early, today.” “I’m an early riser, Willy. You know that. You usually aren’t, though.” “No sir. No, I ain’t. In fact, I ain’t up early, I’m up late, if you understand me. I seen you leave your place, yestiday evenin’. Just seein’ you come back, now, and ain’t that peculiar?” Pause. “What kept you up so late, Willy?” “Well, sir. About an hour after I seen you left, I seen a half-a-dozen big fellas I ain’t seen before, go into your place. Ain’t come out again, neither. I remember you told me you might have visitors from your rum-running days, and you’d like it if I kept an eye out for ‘em.” Prohibition had been half laughable, and half offensive down to his Irish so… (No! Don’t think about that!). It had paid awfully well, though. He still lived on the proceeds. Most of his rum-rummer associates were either dead, in prison, or gone straight, but it made for a good story to tell... precautions such as Willy. One of the five-dollar bills from the '20s wound up in Willy’s pocket, and the old derelict (wonder if he’d been a customer…?) wandered off to get some breakfast. The pigs blood sluggishly woke his senses, and he smelled the oily-metal tang of firearms (and my, hadn’t those changed…) from outside the building. Up the fire escape of the apartment building across the alley, leap across to the roof of his own, and the bullet from the roof door takes him high in the chest. Shock. Pain. Rage. Amateur. Thug. Murder for hire. Fresh blood and senses blazing. Pain reduced to a dull ache, rapidly fading. Hunger rising. (Horror! Oh, horror…) Dark hallway, bright as day to his eyes. Two more guns, snapping arms. Blood. (So hungry…). Who sent you? The wall explodes as the demon comes through. Crushing grip on his left arm. Silvered blade in his right, blurring through the scales like butter. Howls of rage and pain, choked off when the blade blurs through its throat. You learn a few things, when you’ve lived so long. Including this. Chanting. Magics. Time to go now, boyo. Who the hell is Wolfram and Heart? Dark room. Window crashing. Landing on the street, in the early light of dawn… -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-* Her scream woke him. Again. He could barely see her, a pale form in the wan light of the late Warsaw winter afternoon, which managed to creep in around the blackout curtains. “What’s wrong, pet?” “Oh, Spikey. I had another one, so sad it made me weep in my dreams, it did.” “About him? I’m so bloody tired of you dreaming about him.” “Oh, no. Not him. Her.” “Her? Her who? You’re not making sense, pet.” “The Slayer. The blonde one.” “A blonde slayer? You’re dreaming about a blonde slayer? Where? I can nip off and kill her for you, if it would let you sleep.” “Oh, no. Not a slayer. The Slayer. You won’t kill her, for me. You’ll leave me for her, and her brightness will burn away all your lovely darkness.” -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-* She woke with a gasp and bolted upright in sweat-soaked satin sheets. She hadn’t woken him, this time, so she slipped out of bed, checked on the babies (sleeping peacefully), and made her way to the bathroom. The cool water on her face told her what was real. The haunted eyes in the mirror told her that was a lie. Why would she have these dreams? The role ended years ago, and even in the middle of it, she didn’t dream like this. Not about a Dave who wasn’t a Dave, even when the characters had brought them… close. She made her way back to the bed, and slipped underneath the damp-cooled sheets. “Hey. You dreaming, again?” Dammit. She did wake him. “Yeah. The same things. I think I need to see somebody. Maybe we should go to the do-jang, later, too. That seems to help.” Pause. “I’ll call Lindsay, and ask her to keep an eye on the kids, for us. The thing is…” “What?” “The thing is, about the do-jang…. You almost hurt somebody, last time.” “The dreams, they’re throwing me. I’ll be more careful. I promise.” “It’s not just the dreams. You’re 36, and the training and the show kinda beat you up, through the years. I talked to the gyo-san-nim, last time, and he said you should be slowing down, about now, and making up for age with technique.” “You talked to him, about this?” “I had to, after last time.” “What… what did he say?” “He said your technique is great. It’s better than ever.” “Okay….” “He also said you’re not slowing down, Sarah. You’re faster than he’s ever seen you and, maybe, stronger.” Freddie took a deep breath. Ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s scaring me, a little.” Category:Vignettes Category:Fanwork